


Dandelions

by BardsAmbrosia



Category: No Fandom
Genre: Angst, Dictatorship, Gen, North Korea, realistic fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-19
Updated: 2017-04-19
Packaged: 2018-10-20 22:55:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 463
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10672488
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/BardsAmbrosia/pseuds/BardsAmbrosia
Summary: Nothing like impulse writing.





	Dandelions

When you were younger, smaller, and at your most impressionable; before your parents died, they always told you that you were special and that you would make them proud.

 

The house is hot, and even though you kicked off the worn sheets hours ago, you still sweat. _What you wouldn't do for electricity._ The room is dead quiet except for the lonely growl coming from your stomach. _What you wouldn't do for a hot meal._

You miss your mother's food; even when there was very little to work with, it tasted amazing. _She was special_. Turning over on your side, you stare with a lidded gaze to the photo of them both, it's hard to see but the moonlight bouncing off the glass glimmers slightly. And you stare at it every night, so you can see them in your dreams.

 

Your father said one day, you'd join the army, and serve under the supreme ruler, you were smart and you would be strong. You grinned widely at him that evening, forgetting about the missing tooth you were shy about; he brushed locks of your hair behind your ear and told you to eat your cabbage. _Strong girls must eat their vegetables._ Sometimes you wonder if he would have been happier with a son.

 

Your eyes drown in water, glossy with tears. You blink as a few casade down the bridge of your nose and wet the yellowing pillow. Your mother's words were wasted on you. You were never special. Your father's hopes were wasted on you. You were never smart or strong.

 

You are the reason they died. You were a disgrace. It was foolish to hold a child to such expectations, it was a gamble. They should have let you die instead, they were already special and strong. They would have been better off without you, they would have had more food and more money.

 
    
    
    "Mindeulle." Your mother says. She smiles,taking the weed from your fingers. "Soft, pretty, and fleeting. Like a beautiful girl." She rolls it's stem between her fingers and you stare with utmost attention. "Beauty is fleeting, that's why you should be smart." When she gives it back, it's cotton spores start to fly. You aren't sure about what she means, but your flower is losing its petals.  
    
      
    
    
    "Aww, is it dieing?" You ask, forlornly, and she shakes her head. "It's a weed, not a flower, my dear. Weeds don't die, they become many. Weeds are a pestilence and flowers are a blessing." Her smile brightens at your confused expression. She leans down, her fingers comb through your silky hair lovingly. "What a beautiful daughter I have been blessed with."  
    
    

 

 

A beautiful fool. 

 

 

You were a weed, you were a burden. A pestilence, a disease. Unlucky and accursed.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> Nothing like impulse writing.


End file.
